


Learn How to Use a Phone, Please!

by transtwinyards



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Kinda, Past Drug Use - mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:17:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtwinyards/pseuds/transtwinyards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Bittle, nineteen years old, former figure skater, and in Samwell for Culinary Arts from Madison, Georgia. He receives a group text while lying on his bed one fine morning.</p><p> </p><p>Who couldn’t operate a simple group text? This guy lived in the year 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> That AU where Bittle doesn't go to Samwell with hockey mixed with [this](https://twitter.com/ngoziu/status/566755304466305024) and [“you accidentally added me to this group chat and i don’t know how to take myself off” AU](http://stubbornjerk.tumblr.com/post/116449663040).

His first week in Samwell was... eventful.

He’s been caught five minutes late to every class, blaming his short legs and the fact that he was incredibly new to the campus. Ugh, _why_ didn’t he listen to frosh orientation? Wouldn’t have cost him all that time navigating the map if he just _listened_. Luckily, now he knew that Founders was like, the vantage point of _everything_.

Eric R. Bittle, nineteen years old, plopped down on his dorm room bed. It’s been a busy week, and _five days_ have gone by since the last time he’s ever cooked a good ol’ pie. _Five fucking days_. There are limitations to how long he could hold himself back.

It’s his first weekend and he’s good for just leaning back and relaxing but... he couldn’t help himself from being restless.

He was homesick, a little stressed, and sleep-deprived. The student kitchens weren’t crowded on weekends like this but, couldn’t he just bake without having to scrub at pots and pans first?

His phone _dinged_ , signalling a text message. He hoped it wasn’t his mother. That’d make him feel _worse_.

His brows furrowed. What...

___

_=SMH GROUP TEXT=_

**_  
_ ** _??? what is this?_

 ** _B. “SHITTY” KNIGHT  
_** that’s a new name. some1 add a frog in?

 ** _JUSTIN “RANSOM” OLURANSI  
_** not it

 ** _ADAM J. “HOLSTER” BIRKHOLTZ  
_** not me

 ** _JACK L. ZIMMERMANN  
_** uhh, i pressed the wrong number?

 **_  
_ ** _theres ur culprit. can someone get me off this thing?_

 ** _B. “SHITTY” KNIGHT  
_** sorry ‘bout that, bro. j-mann, get him off the chat

 ** _JACK L. ZIMMERMANN  
_** how

 ** _ADAM J. “HOLSTER” BIRKHOLTZ  
_** gdi, jack

___

Yeah, goddamn it, Jack. Who couldn’t operate a simple group text? This guy lived in the year 2014.

___

 ** _JUSTIN “RANSOM” OLURANSI  
_** jack did u let ur butt deal with this again

 ** _JACK L. ZIMMERMANN  
_** don’t involve my butt into this. it was an accident.

 ** _JUSTIN “RANSOM” OLURANSI_**  
lol  
u’re just glad that parser isnt here to b embarrassed about this. yet.  
birds bout to go a-chirpin’ once he gets here for summer

 **_  
_ ** _can some1 just pls help him take me off the text. i would GREATLY appreciate it_

 ** _B. “SHITTY” KNIGHT  
_** gotcha. brb

_____

It took fifteen minutes and Eric was partially thankful that these guys live near each other. He took Shitty’s number from the text and added him to his contacts.

___

**_B. “SHITTY” KNIGHT_ **

 

_thx, dude_

its nbd, bro.  
sry about that tho, jack’s *really* inept with technical shit  
swore he was adding some1 else into the group

****_  
_ _s’cool_   
_whats the deal with him tho. taking someone off a group text would take like, five seconds_   
_it’s freakin 2014_

  
yeah, ransom and holster are *trying* to educate him about that as we speak  
rly sorry about that tho. he’s not usually this inept with technical shit. todays just special i guess

_____

Eric leaves that conversation when another one pops up. It’s  an unknown number.

___

**_Unknown number_ **

I’m *so* sorry about that, bro

_  
um, ok?_   
_i’m assuming this is that jack guy from earlier._   
_and by that, i mean, it’s “ransom” and “holster” on jack’s phone apologizing for him._   
_shitty already apologized for him. 2x. it’s nbd._

_____

When the text didn’t get a reply within the last thirty seconds, Eric left it at that and went to grab his jacket. He may as well spend this day without having to be subjected by butt-dials or any other version of it.

***

Annie’s was, _is_ a good cafe. It wasn’t hard to find on the map, and it wasn’t far enough that it warranted a bus or taxi ride. Just the place to get some good cup of coffee and be back in his dorm before curfew.

The air was brisk and cold outside, the sting instantly settling into his fingertips. God, if he’d known it’d be _this_ cold in Massachusetts, he’d have brought his mitts. Underestimation was a terrible, terrible thing. How did Northerners even survive such weather?

Not even across Founders, his phone vibrated in his coat pocket. Taking it out, he grinned at the text.

___

**_JACK “CAN’T OPERATE A PHONE” ZIMMERMANN_ **

  
thanks for getting me my phone back.  
who told you it was them though?

 **_  
_ ** _your speech pattern is diff. also, i’ll let u guess_

  
it was shitty wasn’t it  
huh  
really though, i’m sorry about the thing and bothering you. numbers escape me sometimes

_  
lol same. check twice next time though._

**_  
_** i will, thanks.

  
_it’s really nbd tho. i’m grateful even  
 u guys just saved me from a weekend of lying down on my bed, sulking_

that sounds unhealthy

 _somehow, i expected that response from you_  


***

Eric soon discovered, from exchanging texts with Shitty (Lord, he _still_ didn’t know that boy’s first name) and Jack, that they were from Samwell’s Men’s Hockey team. (That certainly explained the whole ‘health’ business with Jack.)

He’d heard about them, from strangers in Annie’s to the students at Norris (Founders was usually crowded during weekdays). The hockey team was infamous for its jock tendencies and famous for their games and parties.

What he _usually_ heard were rumors about _Jack_.

About how Jack Zimmermann did crack and that caused him to fall out of the NHL drafts, or about how Jack Zimmermann was older than he looked. Eric couldn’t give a rat’s ass about what people thought of Jack Zimmermann, captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. Jack was a nice guy, the _nicest_ guy that Eric has never met in person before.

Jack had anxiety disorders, from what he’d found on Wikipedia (apparently the boy was famous (and yet he couldn’t use his phone properly. Yes, Eric was _still_ hung up about that)). He was in the NHL drafts but didn’t get in because he went into rehab.

Eric didn’t mention this when they texted and he preferred it that way.

To Shitty though, he’s mentioned it. Eric couldn’t believe that tension could be felt through a phone screen until that very moment.

__

**_B. “SHITTY” KNIGHT_ **

yo bits **  
**...do u believe those rumors?

  
_shitty!!! of course not!  
what the fuck??!_

sry bits. i just get rlly overprotective of my bro

***

The hockey team was out for the playoffs that day and Shitty had warned him not to text Jack anything heavy or just to minimize it. Said that Jack got a little too “extra bitchy” during _and_ before playoff season. Eric complied. Not that he was going to text Jack anything heavy. _Seriously_.

He set up his laptop to watch the games on live stream every night, after studying. Sometimes he watched during essay-writing or research. Hockey was easy enough to understand for him. It was like football, he watched, knew, but never played or even had much enthusiasm about it.

He caught himself shouting angrily when Jack got (very intentionally) hit by a Dartmouth defenseman.

Good lord. What had he gotten himself into?

***

Eric fidgeted with his phone as he trudged up to the address that Shitty had given him. It was post-playoffs now, Eric just passed a test, and the hockey team headed back to catch a break from the season.

This was the first time he was going to meet these dorks in person.

He’s not embarrassed by the fact that he’s been getting severely invested in ice hockey since two weeks ago. Absolutely not. He hasn’t been this excited for a sport he’s never played since he finally understood the mechanics of football, or since he played roller hockey for summer camp three years ago.

The Haus, as Shitty had called it, looked like it needed some spring cleaning. In the middle of autumn. There were rolls of tissue papers by the front lawn leading to one of the other frat houses lining the streets. There was a red and white deck chair and the porch looks like it has seen _better_ days. And when was the _last_ time they mowed the lawn?

The rest of his uncertainty got thrown out of the window when he saw what seemed to be a kitchen through a window. The state of it almost made want to _cry_. Boy, he bet they’ve been cooking nothing but instant noodles and weed brownies in there.

He knocked on the door, thrice, and it seemed like no one was going to answer. He was halfway through turning the knob when the door swung open and he was hit, face first, with chest hair.

“ _Eric Richard Bittle, we finally meet in person!_ ”

“Oh dear,” Eric spluttered and struggled to pull away.

“You Southern gentlemen can’t even gather a simple ‘holy shit’ under your breath.” The man joked, finally pushing him away. His smile was hidden by a mustache and Eric finally recognized him.

“Shitty, I have manners. Oh, and would it have killed you to put on something other than your boxers?” he scolded, frowning lightly at Shitty as the older man pushed him into the Haus. The interior was in a state _worse_ than the exterior. Eric couldn’t say he didn’t suspect as much.

“Clothes are for the weak, Bits. I’ll have you know, this is limited edition Wonder Woman boxers from _Kenya_ ,” Shitty rambled, strolling down the hall. Eric followed, looking around.

“Mister Knight, it’s like you live in a goddamn _frat_ house. Would you mind if I cleaned up just a little before meeting up with the...”  Eric trailed off, stumbling in what seemed to be the living room. The room seemed better than the rest of the house, considering its slightly _clean_ state, but that couch looked _horrid_.

“Oh, uh, I don’t mind. I’ll fucking help you even,” Shitty said, flushing as he bent down to pick up what seemed to be... a discarded pair of boxers? If Eric wasn’t so distracted with the couch, he would have questioned the older man about that.

“What _is_ that couch? Is that even safe?” Eric asked, too mortified to move from his position.

Shitty popped his head into the living room, “Oh, fuck yeah. It’s dirty though so… just don’t sit on it and you’ll be fucking stellar.”

Eric proceeded to look for the kitchen, remembering the mess in _there_. Ugh.

Once he’s found his destination, he blanched at the sight. There was another discarded piece of clothing and the dishes in the sink were still dirty. There were pots and pans all over the island and those looked like they haven’t been washed for _days_. And… oh, god. What have they done with that old oven?

Rolling up his sleeves, he set to washing. He was _definitely_ not leaving this house until he’s cleaned the kitchen.

***

Eric was halfway done with drying the dishes he washed; all of the discarded underwear was put up by the bulletin board by the wall, when someone came down the stairs and down the hall. Eric turned around just in time to see… wow, was everyone in this house taller than him?

The _extremely_ tall man walked into the kitchen, “Shits, wasn’t Bittle…?”

Shitty popped his head into the kitchen, “’Sup? Oh, Bits! You cleaned up the kitchen, thanks bro!”

“My pleasure,” Eric responded out of reflex. He flushed, a sheepish grin forming on his face as he wiped his hands on his pants. Remembering his manners, he held his hand out to the man, who was just gawking at him now.

“I’m Eric Bittle, from the group text two weeks ago? Sorry I cleaned up your kitchen.”

“’swawesome!” Shitty shouted in reply as he went down the hall. There was a moment when both of them laughed at his reply until they realized that Eric was _still_ holding his hand out for a shake.

The man took a step forward to shake it, his hand was a bit cold and his grip was flimsy, almost nervous. “J-Jack,” he stuttered, “and it’s fine. That you cleaned up the kitchen.”

“Jack?!” Eric yelped, his grin widening as Jack began to smile at his _slow_ realization. Eric laughed and launched into a hug. “It’s good to finally meet you! Mister Zimmermann, you cheeky little— Y’all were waiting for me? Oh, dear.”

Jack chuckled at the quick change in subject. Eric went to putting the dishes in the dish washer to dry and set the pots upside down. “No, it’s okay, Bittle. Really. I was going to clean up today but Shitty said you were going to come over this _afternoon_ , not immediately after he announced it to me.”

Eric put the towel down the island, hand on his hip as he stared at Jack. Jack backed off awkwardly and sat down the by the dinner table. “You’re taller than I expected.”

Jack raised a brow at that, a smug smirk on his face, “ _You’re_ shorter than what _I_ expected.”

Eric laughed at that, “Fair point, a bit rude though.”

 


	2. A Way to A Man's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very fine day in the Haus kitchen.
> 
> Jack was definitely not mad about this. Not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompt [rebloggable here](http://stubbornjerk.tumblr.com/post/119739759755).
> 
> I really had fun trying to write Kent in as this smug douche but is very respectful, ahaha.

Jack didn’t know what was worse: the fact that Bittle and Parson were getting along, or the fact that Kent wasn’t going to stop chirping him about this for  _weeks_  because he simply had  _no tact_  whatsoever.

So here’s what happened.

Bittle and he were in the kitchen, there was a pie cooking in the oven while Bittle was working through concocting whatever recipe he was doing for today. Jack was on his laptop by the table, the speakers blaring the Top 40s while he was concentrating on his essay.

Bittle was… dancing and singing, as he usually does. Jack tries to keep himself from looking up to watch. The fond smile on his face wasn’t going to go away at any point though.

The other boys were in the reading room with Lardo. Bittle told them that “if y’all can’t keep your hands to yourselves, I’m just going to have to kick y’all out of the kitchen. Jack can stay because he has self-control. Now  _shoo!”_

Jack couldn’t help but smile a little more at the fact that Bittle let him stay but he kept it to himself.

Then the shouting happened.

Shouting  _in_ the Haus was a usual thing, especially if Holster and Shitty were within five feet of each other. At first, Jack thought they were just waging war against the lacrosse team again. But this kind of shouting was the celly-type of shouting. The ‘ _whoop!’_ s and ‘ _fuck yeah!’_ s sounded a little bit too celebratory.

Jack leaned forward to glance at the door. What was going on out there?

The door swung open, and the  _thud_  of an especially heavy hockey bag resounded on the wooden floors of the hallway. Jack huffed and leaned back in his seat. 

Kent stood there, in all of his flannel and snapback glory, a cheeky smirk on his face and the words “ _didja miss me, Zimms?_ ” and “ _the moose has come out of his man cave!”_  practically emitting off of him in waves.

Jack took special notice on Kent’s expression when a breeze flew in and knocked in the smell of the pie in the oven and whatever else Bittle was cooking. Kent was always a bit of a food enthusiast, easy to lure in with food.

“I didn’t know the hockey teams in this university had their personal cute chefs! I’d have joined college a year ago if I  _knew,_ ” Kent threw at him, teasing and a little bit excited. 

Bittle jumped, stopping his dancing. He flushed, hand flying to his mouth and Jack couldn’t help but snort at his slack-jawed expression. Here was NHL draftee Kent Parson, sitting in the Haus kitchen and he didn’t even  _know_  that he was there until he spoke.

“O-oh my, uh,” Bittle muttered, retrieving the lid and placing it on the pot. Jack noted the sudden Georgian lilt in those few words.

“Hey there, partner,” Kent said, placing his ankle on his knee.

Bittle huffed, knowing that Kent was mocking him. “I’ll have you know, mister, I  _am_  getting paid but I’m only using this kitchen for mutual benefits.”

“Well isn’t that nice,” Kent commented. He held his hand out. “Kent Parson. I’m here for the summer.”

Bittle wiped at his apron, “Eric Bittle,” he introduced himself, walking around the island to shake Kent’s hand. 

But Kent pulled at it and brought Bittle’s knuckles to his lips. Jack huffed, kicking at Kent from under the table, ignored the tug at the back of his head.

“Oh dear,” Bittle laughed, face flushing even more as he took his hand back. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Parson.”

“Please, call me Kent,” he replied, and Jack inwardly groaned.

“Watch that pot, Bittle,” Jack commented, pointedly raising the volume on his laptop and not looking up.

Bittle effectively snapped out of it. “I  _know_  what I’m doing, Jack,” he scoffed, scurrying back to his station.

Kent gave him a knowing look over the laptop and Jack gave him a dry look in return.

 


End file.
